


sweet and sour pork

by picturelyuniverse



Series: all i want for christmas is you [1]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturelyuniverse/pseuds/picturelyuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[sweetness guaranteed, warning: traces of angst]<br/>“All I need for Christmas is here / finding every sweet surprise wrapped up in your eyes”<br/>Jack and Ianto on Christmas day, with wine and take-out, very much feeling the aching absence of two very dear teammates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet and sour pork

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in one out of the many (the number is frankly alarming) notebooks i own for some time now. so far this series has a grand total of one fic but i'll get around to writing more eventually! till then, have some jack/ianto christmas fluff. this is set post-series 2, so sadly, no tosh and owen ;-; light angst, but mostly fluff. 
> 
> enjoy!

It’s their first Christmas without Tosh and Owen. 

Well, it isn’t as if they had spent that many Christmases together but it is all too quiet without Tosh’s comforting presence and Owen’s grumbling self, no team meals (well, not the whole team anyway) or antics in the Hub and –

Well, he even misses serving them coffee, Owen’s downright “cheery” self in the mornings and Tosh’s appreciative murmur of thanks. 

Look at him, wallowing in memories and rambling yet again. Ianto finds he’d been doing more and more of that lately, trying to fill the too-big silences with his too-small voice. 

Jack had told Gwen to pack up and go home to Rhys an hour or so ago. She hadn’t been all too happy, arguing that it’s alright if she stayed a little while because it’s Christmas anyway and shouldn’t they at least have a drink together and what if there happened to be Rift activity? 

“Go home, Gwen,” Jack had said eventually in a weary voice, “Ianto and I’ll be fine here.”

He feels a little clench in his chest as the cog wheeled shut after Gwen’s receding silhouette. Some days, Ianto thinks he might be going mad. He can’t stand to let Jack or Gwen out of his sight nowadays. Speaking of which…

“Jack?”

He pushes open the door to Jack’s office gingerly. There are two glasses half-filled with burgundy liquid, a wine bottle and a takeout menu but the man himself was nowhere to be found. Ianto quashes the irrational panic rising within him. This anxiety of his is getting out of hand. Just as he is about to call out again, he feels a pair of warm arms encircle him from behind.

“Looking for me, Ianto?” There is a warm puff of breath at the nape of his neck, a signature Harkness chuckle and then, a brush of dry lips against his cheek.

Ianto closes his eyes, letting out a wavering breath. When he opens them, it’s to Jack’s concerned and expectant gaze. Warmth bleeds through from the hands grasping his forearms. He’s fine. He is. He really is. (They all aren’t; he has noticed Gwen’s fingers lingering every so often on Tosh and Owen’s empty seats as she brushes past them, the tautness around Jack’s eyes when he smiles that tight smile of his that rarely reaches his eyes anymore, and then there are the black-holes that are their dead friends’ names, the invocation of which will siphon the very breath from his chest but the absence of which is like a gaping wound that their resident doctor isn’t even around to poke and prod at anymore.) 

He lets a wry smile touch his lips. 

“Bit of a surprise, this,” he gestures at the two glasses, “I hope you’re not planning on drinking both of that by yourself.”

Jack casts him an inscrutable look that lasts for a few long moments. Then, he breaks into a grin so wide and dazzling that it makes his heart ache, the corners of his eyes crinkling. 

“Well, much as I would like to boast of my alcohol tolerance, I was hoping my favourite Welshman would be joining me,” Jack’s smile bleeds into his suave tones as he steps smoothly around Ianto – but not before giving in to the urge to give his arse a playful swat which Ianto personally thinks ruined his whole coy little play-acting a tad, not that he’s complaining – to pick up the two glasses. 

Ianto finds himself being handed one of the glasses as Jack gives him one of his infamous, come-hither-to smirks which should be made illegal and prosecuted on sight, that is, if said party didn’t “accidentally” fall into bed with him first. Not that he and that hypothetical person would need a bed because the lack of beds sometimes means more creativity and whole lot more fun. Sometimes, Ianto doesn’t even know if Jack knows he’s doing it but then when he finds himself pushed up against the wall or some other similarly compromising positions, he generally resigns himself to the fact that yes, Jack Harkness knows what he’s doing with that damned gaze of his. 

Jack slides into his seat like a sword into its well-worn scabbard (and that totally wasn’t phallic at all because Ianto’s brain is wonderfully disciplined like that), a leg thrown carelessly over the other. Ianto perches himself on the edge of Jack’s table, cautiously taking a sip from his wineglass. 

The silence is growing a little heavy after a while, or so Ianto thought. He has become painfully aware of the silence hanging over the Hub – like a shroud, he thinks, a funeral shroud – recently. 

“So, what’s the occasion? Breaking out the expensive wine and all?” Ianto swirls the contents of his wineglass, eyes not quite meeting Jack’s gaze. 

There is a moment of pregnant silence and then, “It’s Christmas, Yan. I know we don’t really do Christmas but can’t I spend it with someone I care about?” 

Right. Ianto’s heart gives a little jolt. Ianto swears he can almost feel the palpable hurt in Jack’s voice. Jack is wearing that tight smile of his now, trying to mask his hurt with flippancy. 

“Jack, don’t, I meant, I –” Frustration renders him almost inarticulate. Ianto gives up, gripping the stalk of his wineglass tightly. Everything has fallen apart and it seems like this, too, might tumble right out of his grasp. He should be helping to keep things together, not drive wedges into widening gaps. It seems like the remaining of them can never quite get close enough.

(Lord knows how many people Jack has lost over the years.) 

The silence is, as always, too loud. Then, as if seeing something in Ianto’s face (“You know, you kind of look like an angry potato when you’re upset.” “Jack, what – fine, be that way, you’re not getting any – mmph – what, oh, ohhhhh, Jack, that feels so good—”), the corners of Jack’s mouth softens. 

“Come on, Yan, c’mere.”

Ianto stares at him, befuddled, for a good half minute or so before getting what Jack meant. Wineglass safely stowed back on the table, he makes his way to Jack’s side. When Jack pulls him down onto his lap, Ianto sinks gratefully into his embrace. Where at any other time, this situation would have escalated into completely different territory, this time, it’s purely comfort, warmth and safety. At some point in time, Jack’s wineglass has been place back onto the table, leaving his hands free to rest on Ianto’s stomach. 

“I was going to order some Chinese, actually,” Jack continues conversationally, as if picking up the threads of a completely different exchange, “Thought you might be hungry. I saw you looking at the menus this morning.” One of Jack’s hands migrates to Ianto’s arms, moving up and down the length of his arms in a soothing manner.

Ianto leans into his touch, lying his head back against Jack’s shoulder. 

“Ah, about that, took the liberty of ordering about twenty minutes ago.” At this, Jack’s hands still on his shoulders. 

“I was hungry, thought you might be too?” Ianto offered. 

Jack lets out a huff of appreciative laughter, “Ianto Jones, you’re really something else.”

Later, after they have finished most of the takeout, Jack insists on feeding Ianto each and every piece of the remaining sweet and sour pork, with his chopsticks and sometimes, well, using his hands. 

Now, Ianto is clearing up the empty takeout boxes with some help from Jack who is endeavouring not to spill the remaining sweet and sour sauce onto his stack of, no doubt, very important paperwork. Dropping the last of the takeout boxes into the bin with a “plop” of finality, Ianto turns and says, simply, “Merry Christmas, Jack.” 

Jack has mopped away the last vestiges of sauce from his table-top. He gives no indication of having heard Ianto though, preferring to stare intently at Ianto’s face. 

“You’ve got a bit of sauce,” Jack makes a circular-pointing motion at the general area around his own mouth, “must’ve been from when I was feeding you the pork slices.” His tone turns rakish and just a tad lower when he says, “It was good though, wasn’t it.” 

That’s as far away from a question if Ianto ever heard one. Ianto’s trying to lick it away when Jack surges forward and kisses him. Hard. Ianto swears he felt Jack’s tongue swipe around the insides of his mouth a couple of times for good measure.

“Mmmm, have I ever told you how much I love sweet and sour sauce? But then again, I’m not very picky about the kind of sauce most of the time.”

It isn’t even funny. Yes, it’s another of Jack’s lines, the ones that makes heat pool at his nether regions but also makes him want to laugh for a thousand years and then get right back to whatever “action” is going down (hah), but Ianto feels as if the huge knot in his chest has unravelled. 

He laughs. 

Jack looks both inordinately pleased and puzzled at the same time. Then, he’s chuckling too. 

“Merry Christmas, Ianto Jones,” Jack declares, arms coming around to draw him into a hug, and then in a low whisper, “My Ianto.”

Ianto swears he hears Jack murmur something else into the side of his face but he can’t quite be sure. 

Even though it feels like his world is still in ruins, smoking and smarting from the permanent absence of two dear friends (he’s sure Jack feels it keenly, if not even more so), for the first time in months, it felt like things can actually get better. 

For the first time in months, Ianto Jones smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> and then we pretend coe never happened and jack and ianto kept up this lil christmas tradition till the end of time. also, maybe martha and the doctor pops by on one of these christmases. 
> 
> i'm open to requests (no guarantees though because i might not be familiar enough with a particular fandom/pairing) but the main point is, hoped you guys liked it!


End file.
